Hour of Reunion
by adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: "He still sees her. Not as a ghost precisely; but an echo, a thought, a memory." After Ruth's death, Harry struggles to let her go. Inspired by 'River', currently showing on BBC1.


**A/N: So it's been 4 years since Spooks ended. This is my tribute.**

* * *

He still sees her.

Not as a ghost precisely; but an echo, a thought, a memory.

It starts only a few days after he cradled her in his arms; gave her a final kiss. If he closes his eyes, he can almost remember the feel of her against his lips. All the touches that built up over their shared years will ever-ghost across his flesh.

He visits the house in Suffolk she wanted to buy. The house that would have been theirs. It's both too much, and not enough all at once. The house is so very _her_ ; he swears he can feel her presence surrounding him as he wanders through the rooms, suffocating in the silence because she isn't actually there.

And then, as if through sheer power of grief and wishing, she is. It feels so natural, so right, to have her here, in this house they were to share together, that he doesn't startle.

She is so beautiful. Her face is more peaceful than it has been in a long time, and it's with a pang of guilt that he acknowledges his part in her sorrows. But now she seems simply radiant, her blue eyes sparkling as she surveys him from the doorway of the spare room - what could have been his study.

"What do you think then?" Her voice, so clear, so real, lances through his heart.

"It's perfect," he tells her.

"Have you seen the view of the garden from the bedroom? It's lovely," she muses. "I'd thought about putting a bench under the willow tree, maybe painting it green to match the front door."

He listens, savouring her words, her plans for their life - it's clear she had put exquisite thought into it. All that time he had spent certain he was moving towards losing her, no matter how hard he tried to fight otherwise, and she was making plans to be with him.

It takes him a while to realise that she's stopped speaking, waiting for his reply. "I haven't-" he struggles. "I couldn't bring myself to go in." Because how could he possibly look upon what would have been their room, their bed, and not break apart completely? He couldn't have done it alone.

But she's here now, her eyes soft and understanding, and so full of love that he feels a palpable warmth shift within him. He's not alone; he will never be free of her. He never wants to be.

She's right, of course: the view is breathtaking in its tranquillity. They stand at the window together, watching the strands of the willow tree drifting in the breeze. For the first time in these endless days, where he's been fraught with a mind-numbing grief, there is finally a sense of calm.

His gaze slides to her. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

She turns to him, eyes dancing with amusement. "The garden, or me?" Her coy smile is enchanting.

"Both."

Her smile broadens.

It's almost a surprise, this easy conversation between them. They've always been able to depend on each other, but in the past few years there had always been a thread of underlying difficulty in all their interactions. Perhaps this is what they would have had to look forward to, away from the stress and pressure of the service, free to be themselves, and simply love each other.

Their blissful illusion shatters when the estate agent comes to show him the kitchen and dining area, and he can only see them standing there, not Ruth. It finally becomes too much; he feels the sharp-edged pain of reality slipping back into his consciousness.

The estate agent is saying something, but he can't hear the words, doesn't care. All he cares about is _her_. He turns to leave, unable to bear it any longer; the house is becoming a cruel reminder of everything he has lost, rather than a joyful hope for the future.

She follows him back to the car in silent understanding.

* * *

"Harry, no one expects you to come back to work, ever." Towers' voice issues out of the car's phone system as they drive back into London. He doesn't reply - his decision already made - and eventually Towers ends the call.

He turns to look at her, wondering what she thinks about his final choice. Her words from that day seem to ring in the silence between them: "So leave the service, with me." He had agreed back then. It turns out leaving holds far less appeal without the promise of being with her; sentenced to live out endless days with only his memories for company.

But now she's here, and he needs to know that she understands.

Her soft expression tells him that she does.

After all, this is the woman who gave up her life once before, years ago, just so that he could continue working to protect the people of the country they both love. She has sacrificed herself one too many times for his sake; he has had to let her go one too many times for the same reason. They have always tried to protect each other, she has just always been more successful, and paid the price.

* * *

He has the good grace not to see her in times that would be made more difficult if she were there.

He manages to sort through her flat, and bring her belongings to his house without breaking completely. She's there later that evening though, curled up on his sofa and convincing him to watch 'The Red Shoes'. He thinks of all the years he's known about her love for this film, and yet this is the first time of watching it together. Her fingers dance upon his thigh in time to the music, and the movements are so achingly real he feels them as a beat against his soul. Without realising, he's stopped concentrating on the film playing in the background - she is far more mesmerising. She catches him looking; throws him a smile.

* * *

She straightens his tie for him; fixes his collar.

"Do you need to practise?" she asks.

He glances at the piece of paper on the kitchen table. It lies there, innocuous, oblivious of the words written on it; he isn't — nor is she.

"I don't think so." His voice nearly breaks on the words. "I don't need a piece of paper to tell me how you are - _were_ \- the most wonderful person. What does it know about your intelligence, your loyalty, your humour...? The way your face lit up when you smiled and your eyes sparkled? As if I need a reminder. I could never forget."

Her eyes fill with tears. "You love me."

It isn't a question - it has never needed to be, even if they have never have spoken it aloud.

"I do."

There's a knock at the door.

He picks up his jacket and slips it on; she smoothes her hands across his lapels.

"Good luck," she murmurs. "Say hello to Malcolm for me."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Yeah, and that won't worry him at all."

Her answering smile helps to loosen the tight knot in his heart somewhat.

"Don't forget your speech," she reminds him, reaching for the folded sheet. He eyes it nervously. "It helps," is all she says. He takes it.

"Goodbye," he says, and wishes that it didn't sound so final.

* * *

Mozart's 'Requiem' plays into the silence.

There are only six people in attendance, huddled together at the front of the crematorium. He'd said - that fateful day when he proposed - that he didn't want that for her; she had always deserved far much more. She had deserved everything, but more than that, she deserved life.

His voice cracks in the first sentence of the eulogy, giving up on the words he'd so painstakingly crafted. He's glad for the paper in front of him after all; it takes everything he has just to read it and try to hold back the flood of emotion threatening to engulf him.

Malcolm takes the stand to read the poem they'd chosen.

 _If only we could see the splendour of the land_ _  
_ _To which our loved ones are called from you and me_ _  
_ _We'd understand_ _  
_ _If only we could hear the welcome they receive_ _  
_ _From old familiar voices all so dear_ _  
_ _We would not grieve_ _  
_ _If only we could know the reason why they went_ _  
_ _We'd smile and wipe away the tears that flow_ _  
_ _And wait content._

As the now-familiar words wash over him, he remembers the evening they had spent together discussing these plans. Perhaps it should have felt bizarre - discussing the funeral plans of the woman in front of him, talking to him about it - but it hadn't. It had made it easier to search for funeral poems as she wrinkled her nose next to him at those she didn't like. They had both grown quiet as they read this one - the words had just been so applicable, so achingly true, that they hadn't even needed to express it aloud.

Instead she had simply looked at him, her gaze tracing the lines of his face. "I went to save you." He knows. Not a day goes by in which he doesn't regret it, but he understands.

"I can't promise to be content," he had replied. "But I will wait."

* * *

He visits the grave once the headstone is in place, crouching on the frost-bitten ground of a chilly winter's morning to place the flowers. She had always loved daffodils, and it was only after she'd gone that he'd thought to find out what they symbolised. He hadn't been able to hold back his anguished half-laugh at the returned search results: 'rebirth' and 'unanswered love' stood out in bold letters.

He stares at the golden inscription emblazoned on the stark black granite of the headstone. "Hasten, O Blessed Hour of Reunion," he repeats quietly aloud, eyes swimming with tears.

He has been so empty since her funeral but he swears that for a moment he can feel her presence again; now just a whisper, but comforting nonetheless. The memories from those precious extra few days with her will warm him through even the darkest of days.

* * *

She is the last thing he sees as he closes his eyes. She had always been his guiding light in life; it makes sense for it continue as he passes into the next.

* * *

 _RUTH CATHERINE EVERSHED_

 _1971 - 2011_

 _"Hasten, O Blessed Hour of Reunion."_

 _HENRY JAMES PEARCE_

 _1953 - 2021_

At last, the true hour of reunion has arrived.


End file.
